Free My Soul
by Skychaser
Summary: Bella is trapped in a world whose walls contain her spirit. Is her mysterious knight-in-shining armor enough to save her, or will she have to find the conviction to save herself? AH/AU - For Rebadams7 and the 2nd Annual FFA Ficawesome Gift Exchange
1. Chapter One: Hide and Seek

**Ficawesome Gift Echange- TAKE 2**

**Title: Free My Soul  
**

**Written for: Rebekah ~ Rebadams7  
**

**Written By: Ash ~ Skychaser  
**

**Rating: M+  
**

**Summary: Can a bird trapped in a cage find her wings and fly towards the sun which warms her? ****Bella is trapped in a world whose walls contain her spirit. Is her mysterious knight-in-shining armor enough to save her, or will she have to find the conviction to save herself? AH/AU - Entry for the 2nd Annual FFA Ficawesome Gift Exchange**

**Prompt(s) used: #4 - Meeting for the first time in an unexpected place/time AND #2 - A rainy afternoon and a couple taking teh time to discover sometihng new about themselves**

**If you would like to see all the stories that are a part of this exchange visit the facebook group: ** **Fanficaholics Anon: Where Obsession Never Sleeps **

**

* * *

Chapter One:  
Hide and Seek**

_Spin me round again and rub my eyes, this can't be happening … Ransom notes keep falling out your mouth, mid-sweet talk, newspaper word cut outs. Speak no feeling, no I don't believe.  
You don't care a bit._  
"_Hide and Seek" – Imogean Heap_

x0x0x0x0x0x

_Now_

Stale hospital walls, for miles, as far as the eye can see.

They've bleached her vision, the pale yellow glare that looks more like peed-on snow, incandescent lights stretching past her, sterile, cold, filled with the bright reality of disease. The harsh, plastic seats are burying into her bones, the food eating away at her insides. The tubes eating away at her self.

Stupid, ignorant, possessive, needy, clingy, wrong … unfortunate.

She's been called every name in the book, sticks and stones rolling from her shoulders like water and ice. But she's been called names before. Now, it doesn't matter so much. All that matters is him.

And she has no idea how it's come to this.

x0x0x0x0x0x

_Then_

Thin, white-washed smoke curls around her. Her gaze pierces his like hawks' eyes, feral, angry, and defenseless.

"Why are you here." The words slide from her lips, not a question, just a statement, honeyed death from between painted rouge, and she wonders what it's like to feel free. Not his freedom, not the blonde, polished shmuck sitting before her, lips tight, pants tighter. It's dark and it's dim in the seedy jazz club, and she can barely see the tremor in his fist, the light glinting off of the gold on his finger.

His hand lands, palm down, and then slides, flat, along the table, noises of metal against wood. Flesh lifts to reveal cold, purposeless silver and heavy, possessive diamonds. She smiles, ivory white against bold red.

"Really? Do you think I'm _that_ easy?"

Her scoff lights up his eyes, fireworks in his veins.

"I am not a patient man, Isabella. I've given you two years. You've had your two years, now you're coming home –"

"To slave labor?" She fixes him with a cold glare, pulls the glass of amber colored liquid to her lips, faint bronze glinting off of smiling, ruby red lips. "Over. My. Dead. Body."

"Isabella –"

"Or, better yet, over yours."

He stops, frozen. The tremor returns, anger and rage eating into his bones, useless emotions for a woman who wears his whole world on a string, ancient men feeding from the palms of her polished pedigree hands. Lithely, she stands, two inches adding nothing to her mediocre height.

It's not the shoes that make her a memory. It's the hair, long and luscious, dipping to her waist; it's the eyes, deep and aged, a cache of memories to make the Godfather look tame. Slipping the silver-chained bag over her shoulder, she slides one hand through his curly, blonde locks. He tenses, tries not to retch, rivulets of resentment and apprehension a current under his skin.

"You know who I am. And I will _not_ be a pawn in his petty games."

Her heels click against the polished wood, her body swirling through the smoke, foggy drifts hiding her from sight. He boils, ire inside of swarthy skin, flames inside of round, blue holes, devoid of hope, help, or concern.

A motion, barely seen, his fingers spin in the cloud of grey particles hanging dimly in the air, and they move in formation, hidden corners, separate from the shadows, wisps of smoke and murder.

She moves along the sidewalk; forever away, everything seems entrenched in misery. Even here, she isn't free, kept behind his lids, fingertips away from his grasp. Warmth spreads through the thin lace; the black tank rides against her hips, short stilettos never short enough. Breezes blow by, parting her hair, wafting past her senses, when she feels it. The creeping, never alone webs that spike through her shoulders, winding around her neck.

Ahead of her. Eyes cut right; they're that way too. They've surrounded her on every front, a gazelle in the gaze of a lioness, circling their prey.

But this prey is faster.

Her breath shortens, quick pants between pursed lips, face a perfect calm. She glances up; bright stars lifting the haze of night, warmth cutting through her bones. She truly has loved it here. Two years … the calm before the storm. A storm she had created herself.

A storm she would push through, embracing the thunder with the rain.

Side-stepping the lightning.

An open fence, darkly lit. She can see it from ten feet away, the entrance fading into curling, swarming black. The need outweighs the panic. Shadows of ghostly death close in. So much closer now, each step leading her towards and away. She can taste her freedom. Just one … more … step …

She bolts right, stilettos slipping from her toes, agilely springing onto the dirt, gritty grains beneath her, behind her. She pushes, sprinting faster, using her senses, her lessons, feeling her surroundings. Sliding, in and out of metal, till she can no longer hear the chase. Heart pounding through her throat, every instinct alive, awake, she runs towards her escape, her freedom.

They are there, ready to steal her every dream, vibrant shadows next to a pool of light, waiting, watching. It's a ready-set-go, a split-second decision, a sheer moment of panic. She darts further into the shadows, barely aware of her surroundings, straight into the looming object she prays is what she thinks it is.

The door creaks, a dead giveaway. She slips the metal latches together with a faint click. Stale stench swirls around her; the air reeks with malodorous waste and disease. Inhaling makes her feel faint, eyelids flutter closed. It's no less than insane she's sunk quite so low.

A construction site port-a-potty.

She places one hand, one ear, as close to the door as she dares, unable to hear a word. A huff of breath, irritation at unknowing, at this pawn-like existence, and she stretches out both arms, feeling for her surroundings. Rough plastic, hidden secrets she cannot and does not want to see. Now is the time to wait, but the wait is agonizing.

She slides backwards, struggling not to think of bare feet on this ground, thrusting her hands backwards to lower herself onto the edge, when something feels wrong.

It's warm, and firm, and rather flesh-like. She swallows hard, breathing in shallow gulps.

They've found her here, too. There is no escape, no freedom – but she won't give in without a fight.

She rears backwards, a frightened whorl, slinging a fist, aimless, anywhere, fleeting wishes that she hadn't gotten rid of her stilettos so soon.

"Ugh – fuck!" The words are a hiss, a shallow tenor, while arms faster than her movement wrap around her as simultaneous as her flails of dismay find purchase. She won't scream, but she bites at the hand that wraps around her face, large enough to smother her. His hiss ruffles the hair on the crown of her head this time.

"Shit – woman!" He pants once, pulling her lithe limbs and stiff strength closer, tighter, completely contained. "Do you want them to find us?"

She is still, and so very scared, an emotion she would never admit to. His breathing pulls at her hair, in and out, back and forth, tickling bits of her scalp.

"Now," he whispers, warm bits of breath leaking through her hair and running down her neck, "keep quiet, and I'll keep you safe. You promise not to bite me again?"

She nods, fighting back the tears and the hopes that he is true; she hasn't lost her freedom yet. He doesn't answer; instead, he relaxes his hold and leans her against him, warm, firm muscles and soft, supple skin. Minutes tick by, hours to her dizzy, tired, hopelessly hopeful mind, until he leans past her and gazes out.

"I think they're gone."

He pushes a hand toward the door. She snags it by the wrist.

"You had better be damn sure." The fear is rising again, forcing the words from her throat. "They don't give up easily."

"Fine then," he edges around her, steadying her with firm hands, "I'll go first."

The door opens and shuts, painting a quick portrait of her infuriating, kidnapping savior; messy, spiked dark hair, cut close, with a medium build and broad shoulders.

She is alone. The shadows creep in, closer than before. She misses his closeness, the warm resolve pressed behind her, feeding a silent strength. Moments pass.

She can't breathe.

The door swings open, sudden and wide, inviting grey shadows to invade the dark. A tall silhouette stands before her, beams of thin light filtering across a handsome face.

"Yeah, they're gone." He holds out a hand. "So, do you want out, or are you going to become a permanent fixture?" He smirks, eyes rake her figure. "I bet the construction guys would be rather thrilled to find you."

She scowls. "Are you sure?"

Laughter shines through a soft smirk. "I just hid with you in a port-a-potty for twenty-five minutes. You think I'm going to hand you over?"

She can see his point, but to take his hand requires trust. Something she hasn't given … ever. It won't be easily given now. But really … what other choice does she have? Staying here would be absurd.

"Okay."

She grasps his palm, thin, round, even spaces across a rough expanse, nearly twice the size of hers. She's never held anything so perfectly beastly before, calluses left to cling to dirt-streaked skin. Then she is out, highlighted by half-moon and a flickering street lamp, sweat-covered and grime-laden. She wipes the palms of her hands on her dark jeans and flexes her toes in the dirt, silently mourning the loss of stilettos.

She can't go back, only forward.

She must go home. Thoughts of despair, of her full-disclosure, of nothing hidden and nothing sacred, fill her mind before being pushed through. It's too soon … they can't have unearthed everything yet. She smoothes back her hair with weary, shaken hands.

"Thank you." She squares him off, erasing her debt, and walks away.

Silence for only a moment, followed by bursts of confusion.

"Hey, wait a second! Where're you going?"

She turns again. "Home."

"Okay." Hands through his hair, mussing the short cut. His jeans are smudged. "Why don't you let me walk you?"

"I'll be fine, thank you." Curt and sharp, she hopes to dissuade him.

"It's not exactly safe out there."

She clenches her jaw, grits her teeth. "I'm sure I can manage."

"What if they come back?"

He's right. She won't be as noticeable in a pair. One is vulnerable. Two is dependable.

He senses her hesitation. "I just stood in a port-a-potty. You have to give me more than a 'thank you.'"

Her lip twitches. "I don't have to give you anything."

He grins, an expression obviously prone to induce swooning and damsel-like fainting. He'd best be quick to learn – she is no damsel.

"Fine." Feet follow a well-known path. "You'd best keep up."

He falls into a familiar formation – to her right, angled behind for a better gaze upon the sway of her hips. The walk is silent. Warm, salt breezes drift in from the ocean front, the sway of heavy palm trees thick in the wind. She can hear the lap of the waves, beating upon the sand, drawing grains into its massive expanse, eating the land alive.

He speaks, once or twice, sentences thrown at her like those waves, aching to breach her, break her, find some piece of her willing to be drawn into him, but she isn't sand. She is a diamond, cold and hard, shiny and glowing with a strength he can't understand.

Her ears wonder elsewhere, plotting her path, her escape, searching for the last corner, when she can disappear as a wisp in the wind, a shade retreating to the night of a self-induced prison. These thoughts carry her further away, through alleys and nightmares, past oceans and evening skies, till a hard bar locks across her stomach, pulling her backwards, flying through air for only a moment, then trapped against the same warm, flesh-like surface.

"What the –" It spills before she can stop it, and his hand is firmly pressed against her face for the second time, his lips near her ear.

"Hush."

She's tempted to bite, but it doesn't seem fair. Because what she should have seen, he saw first.

They're there. There are no signs, but they aren't hidden. Shadows, deeper than they should be, line the walk of her small, square condo, waiting to spring, a trap of the most intricate deception.

Salt tears well in the corners of her eyes, spilling over, trailing down her cheeks and running over the grooves in his fingers. It's the last thing they could have found, the last they could have taken, and now it's theirs. She has nowhere to go, nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

He's dragging her backwards, pulling her behind a wall and into the safety of the shadows that can only hide her for so long. He peels his hand from her lips, leaning as she slouches against him, fighting despair.

"What the hell do they want?" He looks down at her, confused and fierce. "What the hell did you do?"

Her hair quivers as she shakes herself, pulls herself tall, not bothering to remove the tears.

"Nothing. This isn't what you think."

"Then what is it."

"I took something they wanted." Silence. He won't speak until the truth is known. She glares, menacing as a beaten doe with tears sparkling and breath heaving in her chest. "I took my freedom."

"Come with me."

She looks up. They aren't the words she expected to hear. They're wrong, out of place, setting him on the edge of more danger than he could ever imagine.

"No."

"Please."

She's so tired. She can't look him the eye, can't approach the thoughts which are brewing in her mind. It's one night. Escape, hope, and freedom ring in his words. He doesn't know what he's offering. But he doesn't have to know anything.

It's just one night.

"Okay."

"Good." An attempt at a smile, crooked, half-there and all wrong, but it doesn't matter. It's a chance. He holds out a hand, yet another offering made on no one's time. "Anthony Masen."

"Isabella Swan."

He takes her hand, warm and trusting. A sick writhing runs through her veins. She doesn't want him to trust her.

"It's nice to meet you, Isabella."

_Not for long.

* * *

_

**A/N - **Woohoo! And now, the fun has started! There are actually about nine more chapters to this lovely little dabble of mine, but this is the longest of them all. :) I hope you'll join me as I post, once every hour or so, a tidbit more of Bella's story! And don't worry ... if you're lost, you won't stay that way for long (I hope)!

**To Rebekah** - I hope you enjoy it bb! Sorry if it's not what you expected, but give my mind an inch and well ... it tends to run a mile, LOL!

**To Robrator and Mezzmerizeme** - These two awesome ladies were my wonderful beta-team, keeping me in line and providing me the support I need! Love you!

**To Puppymamma0909, Thisguiltyblood, Kd Masen, Bex-chan Fanfiction, Flappergirl, Zenoneness, Vampiremama, (and anyone else I may be forgetting, just yell at me if I am!)** - THANK YOU ALL for the amazing WC's which helped my lazy self finish this thing in time! And without stress? You ladies are AMAZING!

I hope you check out the other gifts, the link is on my profile!

Much love!


	2. Chapter Two: Shades of a Shadow

**Since I completely flummoxed and forgot to do this last chapter ...**

**Disclaimer**: I do not own any of the Twilight characters or the rights to "Winter Winds" as performed by Mumford & Sons, and I will not be earning income from using these materials. I do, however, own the storyline and any original characters. Thank you.

**A/N:** Moving on! **Rebadams7** ... I hope you're ready for more. :) Also, this chapter and the rest of the story have a bit of a second dedication ... to **Bex-chan**, who is one of my ALL-TIME favorite people, and was amazing enough to write a FAGE on the fly, without getting a gift herself. Babes? You are an amazingly generous person who helped me get this written, which is why I want to devote the remainder of this story to you as well. ILY!

**

* * *

Chapter Two:  
Shades of a Shadow**

_Let the memories be good for those who stay …_  
"_Winter Winds" - Mumford & Sons_

x0x0x0x0x0x

_Then_

Rough threads scrape at her hands, simple folds and curving corners, the comfort of a shelter no luxury she can afford. Her feet are black and streaked with lines, caked with the failure of last night's escape. A visit to the shorefront before she leaves the city will be well worth the imitations of a bath.

Her eyes flicker longingly towards the hinge-cracked door.

"_And, you know, feel free to shower … tonight or in the morning."_

_Fingers flex under the rough sheets in her arms. _

"_I think I'll sleep for tonight." _

_He nods, runs a hand along the back of his neck. A gesture she's seen many times before – discomfort. _

"_Okay. Sleep tight." Halfway down the hallway, he stops. "Don't worry. They won't find you here."_

He doesn't know, can't understand. She won't put him in more danger. A shower … it's all she craves, but the noise alone is the threat. She must slip, a shade in the midst of her shadows. Hands linger on the worn cover. Desires to stay flit through her, unwarranted and impossible.

Her life lies in the armchair – five-hundred dollars in cash, to take her from here to there. Wherever there might be. The bag she leaves, a silent memento, a payment, a thanks. Her phone she tossed to the waves long ago, useless in the midst of her exile.

Steps to the door, soundless padding. The air is empty, thin, and cold, a piece of her left behind. To stay, to be strong, to stand tall, these are not her calling, not her place in this life. She bites the inside of a cheek, wishing more than ever they were.

Unfeeling metal meets soft, shaking flesh. Her fingers curl tightly around the knob.

"Tonight's too dark, you know."

She jumps, then stills, face composed, heart racing through her chest and into her open palms.

"For what?" She swallows.

"For running away." His walk is a saunter, a gait to show he is more than she knows. A chill runs through her, fear and anxiety a winding thing, a fist in her gut. "You won't get very far." He reaches her, wraps a hand around her wrist. "You should stay."

"Why?" It chokes on her tongue, half-cough with half-strength, and her determination is losing.

"No shoes. No id. No passport … just money." He circles her, leans closer, breathing soft against her skin. "I don't know who they are, or why they want you, but you _won't_ survive on your own." Eyes catch eyes from the corners of vision, dancing in the pale, shimmering darkness. "Not out there. Not without someone who knows."

She waits for the terror, the driving fear. She waits in vain.

Warmth trickles through her, lights a fire underneath her toes. She's losing the battle.

"What," she pants softly, "if I say no? And leave?"

He circles her again, stepping away. She can feel his every motion, skin attuned, senses standing on edge, sparking at his shifts, fading at his stillness.

"Then go. If it's freedom you want, take it." She starts for the knob, anger and terror brewing with deep-seated desire. "But –" his harsh word cuts into her movement, "how long can you keep it?"

Arms still before effortlessly falling to her sides. It is her surrender, her last bit of will.

"Smart move," he grins again, off-kilter and out of place. Her insides twist. "Feel free to grab a shower. I'll be taking the couch from here on out."

Orders. Always orders, and she follows, a lamb willingly lead to the slaughter. Her feet cross a path she had never thought to tread. A glance out the window to myriads of stars, glimmering, glistening, calling … they are free.

Now, she will never join them.

x0x0x0x0x0x

_Now_

Hair, deep shades of brown in the crying light, soft under her fingertips. Her hands won't pull away, cutting though the short locks, weaving around the knotted bits and blood-matted sweat. Whatever is the most familiar, the most intimate, it's what she will give.

_Mea culpa, mē miseret, mea maxima culpa …_

The beeps and the clicks and the drips fill her ears, and she hums words she can never remember. Her head meets his shoulder, shaking, hands sliding down his arms and sinking into his.

"I'm sorry … I'm so, so sorry. Please …"

She has never known freedom as she has in him.


	3. Chapter Three: He Is More Than Me

**Disclaimer**: I do not own any of the Twilight characters or the rights to "Timshel" as performed by Mumford & Sons, and I will not be earning income from using these materials. I do, however, own the storyline and any original characters. Thank you.

**

* * *

Chapter Three:  
He Is More Than Me**

_You have your choices, and these are what make man great, his ladder to the stars …  
Timshel – Mumford & Sons_

x0x0x0x0x0x

_Now_

"Miss?"

She is stiff, hard and knotted, when her head rises, bleary-eyed, and she wonders how long it's been. She blinks.

"Yes?"

He pulls at his white coat, thumbs the plastic and paper in his hands, and drops it with a dull thud into metal.

"His condition has shown no change. It would be more conducive to hospital policy …" he hesitates. "Visiting hours are over, ma'am."

Fingers, red raw and thinly pale, clench around a calloused, limp limb.

"I've been here for three days."

He sighs, brow lined with death and fingers with foreboding.

"We know. We don't want to have you forcibly removed, but without consent and cooperation, we can no longer allow you to –"

"Fine." Thick sand on her tongue, ground out by her teeth. "Call him. I'll cooperate."

x0x0x0x0x0x

_Then_

"You know, you're not very cooperative."

Her eyes angle up at him, incredulous disdain snagged in the corners. The bowl slips across the table; narrow, clear liquid dribbles down the side. He raises an eyebrow.

"Thank you." Her gaze is curt, flinching back to the bowl, hands itching to pull at the cotton slung low around her hips. It's rough and banal, and she longs desperately for the silk, the satin, the lace of captivity. Better to be well kept than common dishwater.

They eat in silence. Well … he eats in silence. Noodles swirl in her bowl, sliding against the crimson edges, the chipped china cow missing one eye. It's sodium inebriated and she can feel arteries clogging, veins slowing, as she nibbles at the carbohydrate-laden dish.

"You don't eat much, you know." He catches her eye, smiles a little.

Her bowl slides away from her, hands drop to her lap, vision to unfinished wood. She is folded, gracefully, pleasantly – servile. He sighs, the shift stirring her hair.

"You can get up if you want. You don't have to wait for me to order you."

No motion. She can't understand … he ordered her to stay, authority and strength a live wire in his voice. His commands are contradictory, cascading her thoughts into confusion. Wood scrapes against tile, squealing, her ears flinching from the sound. Heavy steps halt beside her.

"Isabella …" His hand brushes her hairline, lifts her chin. Face to face. "Izzy …" Lines crease behind his eyes. "No," he whispers, a stray lock of hair falling halfway across his forehead. "Bella." Satisfaction. "I'm not your master. And I never will be." Sadness reflects her disillusionment. "If you want freedom, you have to learn to take it."

Eyes closed, expression open. He brushes a thumb lightly along her cheek.

He is gone. Bright blue depths greet her flashing eyes, retreating to sanctuary. Her mouth opens, a tiny, round, pale pink "o".

Two weeks, a hundred words, and she burns at his touch.

Can she become more than herself?


	4. Chapter Four: Learning To Be

**Disclaimer**: I do not own any of the Twilight characters or the rights to "Basic Space" as performed by The XX, and I will not be earning income from using these materials. I do, however, own the storyline and any original characters. Thank you.

**

* * *

Chapter Four:  
Learning To Be**

_Make me a deal, a day, a piece, take it all, just stay a week. I'll take you in pieces, we can take it all apart. I've suffered shipwrecks right from the start; I've been underwater, breathing out and in.  
I think I'm losing where you end and I begin._

"_Basic Space" – The XX_

x0x0x0x0x0x

_Then_

"Why did you help me?"

Her eyes are dancing across her hands, nervous and unwound, picking at the furniture, the book, the sweats. He glances up, studying her – her angled neck, the silk sheets of thick brown hair, the line of her pale pink lips against a peach white canvas. Beautiful, yes … but something more lies in the weight of her small frame.

"Does it matter?" He sets his textbook against the rough-edged coffee table and leans against the thread-bare armchair. His eyes dance across her, studying her, memorizing her. He won't give her an answer unless there's a demand.

Moments pass, lost in silent study, until she looks up, meets him where he calls.

"Yes. It does. I don't … I can't understand." A supple strength burns, filling her eyes with something more. He smiles. It's there. He leans back and cradles his chin in a palm.

"Does a poor, lonely college boy need a reason to help a dazzling damsel-in-distress?"

She studies him this time, strands of hair slipping around her fingers and sliding against her cheek. Her gaze is more than thoughtful; it's searching, digging, and he can feel the edges of it working under his skin. She's penetrating his boundaries.

"No," she pauses, hesitates, adjusts, "but … this isn't a rescue."

He smiles. She's learning. "Then what is it?"

"More." The word slips off of her tongue before she can pull it back, and she doesn't know where it came from or where it disappears to. Silence. She looks down, pulls the book from her lap and sets it on top of his bedding.

She stands, breathes in. Head tilts down and then raises, struggles, fighting and learning. Trying.

"I'm going to take a shower."

He nods. "It's your choice."

Her cheek flexes. She's biting it again. "I know."

She disappears, steps fading into a hallway, slipping behind a door. Pipes squeal, water bangs, and he watches, her image ghostly in his mind.

It fades harder, lingers longer now, her essence. Attraction was never a question, but unrecognized emotions are settling in him, deep seated desires to bring her to herself, to show her light, pull her from their darkness.

They're dangerous, these thoughts.

"You're so much more, Isabella."

Suddenly, he's deeper than he ever thought possible.

x0x0x0x0x0x

_Now_

Beeps and drips and buzzes and silence fill her brain, pulled by her ears and stretching around thoughts. He's steady now, stable. "Out of the woods," they said; she can go home.

He is her home.

There is nowhere else she'd rather be.

"Edward." His name falls from her lips, fades into nothingness, and she's known for so long, that other him didn't fit, his outline shaded and filled in by so much more. She squeezes the hand that hasn't left her grasp. "They won't take you away from me. We're stronger than they are. So much stronger."

Two sharp raps shatter the silence and the drone. She looks up, startled, eyes wide. Painted suit, collared neck, soft hands … she knows who he is, can read him now, instantly awake. She stands, but never lets go.

"Ms. Swan, I presume."

She nods, curt. He smiles, tries to be at ease; he knows the fear and the terror, sees it day to day.

"Have a seat. We'll begin right here."


	5. Chp Five: Regrets Are For Those Who Fall

**Disclaimer**: I do not own any of the Twilight characters or the rights to "Breathe Me" as performed by Sia, and I will not be earning income from using these materials. I do, however, own the storyline and any original characters. Thank you.

**

* * *

Chapter Five:  
Regrets Are For Those Who Fall**

_Hold me, wrap me up … unfold me, I am small and needy, warm me up … and breathe me. "  
Breathe Me" – Sia_

x0x0x0x0x0x

_Then_

She paces, wandering, every moment tighter and knotted into little bits of time she cannot buy back. Clock ticks on the wall. Water drips in the drain. Carpet, shagged and rough, skims under her feet.

Threadbare cushions on threadbare couches on threadbare rugs on worn down wood. The paint peels, the wallpaper sags, the tile chips, the bowl rusts. Poverty rises from every inch, spewing discomfort and isolation.

Silks and satins and lace, leather and luxury and plush, these are the modes of her past, her life, her captivity.

Think for them, live well.

Think for yourself, live poor.

The rough-edged cotton is rubbing into her hips; skin grows thick and coarse. An endless trail of sweatpants, waistbands, t-shirts, and flip flops stretches before and behind her. Nothing is the same.

Two months, and she barely remembers her own reflection.

Her skin searches for sunlight, legs ache for more than movement in one direction. She craves the wind, the salt, the _sea_ of the outer world.

She feels more captive here, in learning, in reaching for her freedom and grasping at thin strands of hope, than in vapid extravagance and stable confinement.

She can't help but wonder … is it worth it?

Metal twists in its lock, the door opens, creaks, shuts. She is by his side in a moment, hands at his, wrapping hers around his only free limb.

"Please, give me something, anything to do." Desperation strung high, voice scratched and eyes varying shades of wild.

Shit … did he think he could leave her trapped?

"Bella." His voice is pained, crumbling. He doesn't know what to do for her. She steps back, tears in her eyes.

"I can't do this … I can't be here anymore … not like this." Broken, pleading, perfect. "I need _air_." She sinks, suffocating, leans against the chair, threadbare and poor. "This isn't _free_."

She doesn't want to leave, but she can't bear to stay.

He tosses his keys to the side, books strewn on the floor. She is helpless and scattered, pieces falling from her self and onto the floor. She asked – for her. It's time to give.

"Bella." His hand is soft, his voice softer, pulling her from herself and offering his own strength.

She follows, fluttering in the wind, his t-shirt sliding from her shoulders and his sweats slipping from her hips. For the first time he notices – her translucence, the slim shadows wrapping around her, creeping onto her body and into her flesh.

He should never have let it go this far.

She follows, ever obedient, but now, he feels as though it's for another reason. He leads her, pulls her through a back door, down a small corridor, through a hall, twisted and winding, through another door, to air. The heavy metal swings, creaks on rusted metal, opening regardless of its relentless protestation.

Sea air washes through her, swirls around her, finds her hair and brushes along her shoulders. It's all she can do to hold herself upright. A thin balcony hangs over sand and spray, rocks and salt ocean. Three paces stretch through it, the entirety of her freedom, but it's a step, and it's all she needs.

The skin along her stomach stretches, pressing against the chipped black iron, pulling at her reins. Water slaps against the rocks, the tide rolling in as the sun dips into the horizon, arms of purple, pink, orange, red, spreading across the horizon and gathering into its embrace. She feels as though she would be gathered in with it.

Warmth slips around her waist, folds through her arm. She doesn't turn. She doesn't have to. He's always there.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." He watches, the bloom returns to her cheeks, her lips, her eyes. Hair flickers and flies, tangled in the breeze, its heavy weight no match for the breeze. Thin, porcelain limbs cling to black, stretch her into the breeze, wistful smiles and pure bliss.

"How do you do it?" Her lips form the words, almost carried away in the breeze, but they catch his ears and he looks, confused.

"Do what?"

Eyes are closed, cheeks nearly flush with exhilaration. "Live here … in this … to be free. Is it worth it?"

Understanding dawns. He pulls his arm from her waist, grips onto the iron. His warmth surges from her body, leaving her skin cold and tepid. She opens her eyes to him.

"It's not a question of worth, Isabella." His gaze is fixed, red-yellow orbs sinking into flat blue endlessness. "And it doesn't matter where you are. Were you happy, before?"

She doesn't answer. She doesn't need to. He knows.

"Freedom is … it's not tangible or material … it's here. In you." Eyes flicker to her face. "And you may have to fight for it."

Her heart _is_ tangible in the drowning darkness, the pull and draw she longs to sink into, to empty herself and fill it with whatever she sees in him. Stray breezes ruffle his hair, pulling at the long and thick of it, sweeping it across a smooth brow. She steadies it with her hand.

Warmth pulses under her fingertips; he looks towards her at the touch. Fingers slip through his hair, cradling his cheek, caressing a strong, shaded jaw line.

"Bella …" her name glides from his lips, breathless warning.

It's too late.

Her lips are firm against his, warm and giving, loving and perfect, moving in harmony. She is supple and pleasant, a heady dream, tiny fingers curling in his hair and tugging gently at the root.

Whispers of breath, he pulls her closer, brushing a hand along the small of her back, fingertips sliding against the tops of her sweats. She is sweet to the taste, her hair blowing in his face and entwining him in her grasp.

He never wants to lose this.

Everything is wrong.

He pulls away, lingers, and is gone.

His regret-laden steps are heavy in her ears.


	6. Chapter Six: Pieces of You and Me Lem

**Disclaimer**: I do not own any of the Twilight characters or the rights to "Vermillion" as performed by Slipknot, and I will not be earning income from using these materials. I do, however, own the storyline and any original characters. Thank you.

**A/N:** This chapter contains graphic lemons. I will put a line break before and after. Do not read if you are uncomfortable with the content. You have been warned. :)

**

* * *

Chapter Six:  
Pieces of You and Me**

_She is everything to me, the unrequited dream, the song that no one sings, the unattainable.  
She's a myth that I have to believe in, all I need to make it real is one more reason …_  
"_Vermillion, Part Two" - Slipknot_

x0x0x0x0x0x

_Then_

The man across from her adjusts his collar, clicks a pen and looks at her. The noise echoes in the contained room. Her fingers clench, sticky sweat turning her strokes into jolting motion up the crevice of his palm.

Plastic and metal, to hold her voice, record her secrets, force her down the wavering path. It burns where it sits, not three feet away; she watches it from the side of her gaze. There is a man on her other side, lying, prostate, vulnerable, powerless. He is what presses her forward, shoving her into the mouth of the beast.

"_Freedom is … it's not tangible or material … it's here. In you. And you may have to fight for it."_

_Edward … I'm fighting. _

"Shall we begin?" She nods, breath short, eyes fixed on his chest, the shallow lift which sustains what saved her, what she cannot lose.

"Would you please state your name and history for the records?"

"My name is Isabella Marie Swan. I was born September 13th, 1987. My mother is Renee Anne Higginbotham Dwyer, deceased April 23rd, 1992. My father is Charles Anthony Swan. For the past eighteen years, I have lived with my father in Chicago, Illinois."

She stops, hesitates, swallows. Her Italian is perfect, she knows. It will be flawless, clear, and implicit … she is turning her back on his life for her, on the life he had set up for her. Somehow, she can't bring herself to care. It is her life now.

"My father, Charles Anthony Swan, is the boss of the _cosa nostra_ la famiglia Cigno, or, as it is known here, the Cigno family mafia."

x0x0x0x0x0x

Air fills the void where he stood, chill and tasteless and vengeful.

He is gone, and she is left, burning brightly, fluttering helplessly against the wind which threatens to shove her over and into an abyss she's never felt, only heard of. She is hurt and bruised, but she is alive and alight, her soul flying on wings of emotion, of his touch and his fever and his gaze, and they override the pain every day.

She lifts her face to the fading sun. She doesn't know when or how, but something has grown and is budding, threatening to burst through the bloom and flower into something delicate and wondrous. If only she can embrace it.

Light fades, darkness stretches its shadows around her, warmth and black that hugs to her curves and splits her open, searching for the flower and coaxing it's petals outwards. But it won't come, it won't complete, and she feels empty, half-broken and half-bidden, half-desired and half-destined.

Her soul is desperate for its sun.

She follows his path, through its winding turns, feeling his footprints where he stepped, tracking him, fighting to become the predator in this game of fear. Carpet sweeps beneath her feet; it's a short walk to find the place she belongs. She feels it now; it's been growing, days of simplicity and familiar love working between her seams.

The door opens. She steps inside.

The bed is mussed, sheets thrown and pillows scattered over the mattress. He sits; his head in his hands, shirtless and cowed, and when he looks at her, his eyes are dark and red-lined.

"Bella –"

Three steps and she is in front of him, over him, hands sliding beneath his chin and feeling the very essence of him slip through when she presses her lips to his. She is powdered sweet, lightning and thunder, hands pushing through his hair, pulling him backwards, her knees finding place on each side of him.

He is shocked, stunned, caught, bewildered; his body responds as adrenaline pumps through his brain. His hand slides behind her neck, pulls her away, gentle and firm.

"Bella, no – what are you –"

"You told me to fight." Fever burns in her eyes, dripping into his. "You told me to take it."

He wants to tell her it's not what he meant, but he'd be lying. Hypocrite. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but she speaks first.

"You're all I know. And for the first time in my life, it feels right." Suddenly, he can see her now, fully blossomed, petals spread before him, showing him the truth of who she is. "Now, it feels like enough."

In that moment, he is hers.

x0x0x0x0x0x

She is light and the lift is effortless; his hands slide beneath her t-shirt and around her hips. He pulls them both backwards, gliding across the sheets, and then lowers her into his arms, claiming her lips with his own. Her hair is a curtain, a cocoon; they are hidden, in the world but not a part of it, metamorphosing into a creature of unstoppable beauty.

Her lips are searching, hungry; his are gentle, nipping, tasting her, breathing her, and pacing her, slowing her frantic motions. He pulls away from her lips, tracing her jaw, breathless anticipation shooting through his limbs. He reaches her ear, draws the lobe between his teeth, her skin sweet against his tongue, the scent of her hair filling him.

His hands trace her hips, fingers drawing small circles across the bone before gathering the worn cotton between his fists, dragging it upwards, planting a soft, hungry kiss in the sensitive crevice beneath her ear.

Then she is free, unbound, her petite chest bared before him, her life exposed. Thin scars litter her abdomen, glinting in the shifting light, and she sits tall, lip between her teeth and back arched as he runs his thumbs over each and every one, worshipful and adoring.

Sweats hang low on her frame, the deep cut of her thighs peeking from beneath faded coverings. The urge to rip them from her body and devour her, heart and soul, sweeps through him, relentless, but he presses backwards and moves on.

She deserves more.

"Bella," he whispers, sliding from under her and rising to wrap his arms around her hips. He peels the fabric from her body, silently pleased at the deep-seated blush that rises on her pale cheek. "Do you understand how beautiful you are?" Kisses break his words as he gathers her to him, flesh pressing against flesh, warmth meeting and sighing.

He pulls himself around and lays her before him, her thick, mahogany locks curled and spread around her head. She is the angel, and he will adore her, pressing against the heavy halo she bears.

His lips dance across her flesh, cursing and blessing the scars he didn't know to expect, believing he can wipe them away with his sanctimonious love. His fingers follow, raising goose bumps along her flesh, and she moves, snuggles, creates her permanent place in his bed and in his heart. Her hands lift above her head, graceful and willing, presenting herself to him.

He can wait no longer.

His hands drag up her sides, his mouth moves to her breast, the silk, swollen nipple the object of his desire. He brings it into his mouth, rolls it between his tongue, dragging the small, sweet pants and mewls of pleasure from her open mouth. His erection is pressing against his jeans and he moves a hand, desperate to feel the stale air of the small room.

Her soft, small touch on his hand stills him. She is looking into his eyes, meeting him body and soul. And she wants her portion.

With fumbling, the button snaps beneath her fingertips, and the thick cotton slides from his hips, pooling around his knees and trapping his legs. Hooking her arm around his neck, she drags herself forward and presses him back, sitting against his heels. Her eyes are alight with playful coquettishness, and he begins to protest, he wasn't done, but then her lips are on him, teasing the tip of him, her small tongue wrapping around him and drawing mind-blowing pleasure from the depths of his unencumbered brain.

Thought, speech, everything is lost besides sense, the feeling of her hot hands dragging nails down his thighs, her small mouth wrapped around him, slick and wet and pulsing, prodding, throbbing till he feels as though it's been so long, he may very well explode. His hands pull from his sides, push through her hair, play with her scalp, urging her on and yet dying to draw her away, so that he can feel the inside, the parts that he longs to touch with every iota of his soul.

It's sudden when she stops, her eyes flicking to his, her hands drawing up over his abdomen. When he opens his lids, she smiles, sliding backwards and placing herself out again, on display for his eyes and his pleasure alone.

With a low growl, he frees himself from the captivity of clothing and wraps his knees around her hips, hovering over her offering. Her breasts are his, one in his mouth and the other in his hand, soft tweaks and simple rubs that leave her panting with want and need. His other hand slips between her legs, pleased to find the damp, drawing warmth of true pleasure.

He finds her hidden heat, places his middle finger against it and moves, in time with his tongue, the rest of his hand hovering against her, placing pressure at her entrance. Her knees draw upwards, clenching around his sides, and pulling him closer, always closer. It's skin and warmth and intimacy she craves, drawing him towards her and into her.

He resists, reveling in her low moans, her lofty sighs, the hands which wind through his hair and pull his mouth to hers. Then, in an instant, before he can recognize her motion and keep her at bay, he is yanked forward, her legs wrapped around his hips, her feet pressing into him, and he is inside.

It's just barely, and it is everything he can do to keep from clenching in pleasure, releasing at the touch he hasn't felt in years. But she is clawing, incessant, needy, and pulling him closer, slipping once, twice, and he is all there, encased in her, and it's home. It's heaven and warmth and pleasure, but it's comfort and safety and knowing, as if it was here, in her arms, that he's always belonged.

She stills, her arms locked around his neck, eyes shut, lips parted gently. He watches, entranced, as a slow, simple tear slips from her eye and into her hair. His lips brush the liquid away.

"It's … you," she whispers. He crushes her to him, rocking his hips and throbbing at the gasp of breath that brushes his ear. He pulls away, sliding within her.

"I love you, Isabella."

Her body tenses as he fills her again, one hand finding her below, the other tucked beneath her, drawing her to him. She whimpers a bit, finding purchase along his head, inside of his arm, till he drops back and then forward. He moves inside of her, repetitive and loving, stroking her, finding her, feeling her.

It's moments suspended in time, pleasure and power and purchase and hope, and they are lost together, in the thick of it, never looking to find another. A quiet desperation hums, lengthening his strides and tightening her legs. It is passion neither one has ever known.

Moments are in his eyes, in his touch, and then around her, an ocean swelling into her, through her, till she cannot see, only feel. And what she feels is flying, pure seconds of ecstasy, and then she is back, his hands on her, around her, waves of pleasure lapping at her in shudders. He is still, drawing her pleasure out, and so she moves, the slick warmth of him pulling inside her.

The initial pain is long past its part, and she revels in the fullness, the fit of him to each and every curve. She forces her hips forward, encasing him again, and then back, tightening and creating a rhythm of adoration. Within moments he is spent, low, throaty groans wiping away any doubt from her mind, watching as he leans away, Adonis in rapture, each muscle tensing in sudden release.

x0x0x0x0x0x

And then he is around her, enfolding her, wrapping her as fully as she has wrapped him, small kisses showering the base of her neck, the tops of her eyes, and finally meeting, joining as one, against the force of her lips.

She has found her sun. Her petals are opening to the world.


	7. Chapter Seven: Wolf, She Cries

**Disclaimer**: I do not own any of the Twilight characters or the rights to "Night Time" as performed by The XX, and I will not be earning income from using these materials. I do, however, own the storyline and any original characters. Thank you.

**Translations:** _  
soldati - _soldiers (In the Sicilian Mafia, the _soldati_ are crews under the direction of the _consigliere_ who complete assignments, sometimes given by the _capofamiglia (boss) of the particular clan)_

**

* * *

Chapter Seven:  
Wolf, She Cries**

_Can I confess these things to you? Well, I don't know. Embedded in my chest and it hurts to hold. __Night time, sy__mpathize; I've been working on white lies. So I'll tell the truth.  
I'll give it up to you._

"_Night Time" – The XX_

x0x0x0x0x0x

_Then_

She rolls over and pulls his arm around her, burying herself in his sheets and his scent. The sun is peaking over the horizon, streaking the floor and lightening the locks in his hair. He smiles, lazily, exhausted and outdone, but she's small and sprite-like on his chest, exuberant with energy and new found existence.

"Why are you here, in Miami?" Her chin is on her hands, folded over his stomach, hair draped around her eyes. Bliss radiates from her, an ever-present smile illuminating her eyes while the questions never seem to cease.

A week in and he's certain he never wants to find her any other way.

"Why do you care?" He grins, ruffles her hair. She clears the frayed strands from her face.

"Because I want to know. Why are you avoiding the question?"

"I'm in school. And I like the beach."

She frowns. Too vague, but she can't dig any further. She knows the questions need to end, but at every turn she craves more. She rolls onto her back, pulls up the sheets.

"Oh. Okay."

"Why are you here?"

She shifts, stills. His breath echoes with his heartbeat, discordant and perfect. She wants his, so she must give hers.

"I ran away."

Waves roll and crash, echoing through the crack in the window, the only sound in silence.

"Is that who you were running from?"

There is no answer. There are no words.

He's ripping in two, pieces falling away and decorating the floor. But he's already gone too far. He doesn't know if he can live without her now.

"Bella … you can't push them away. You can't stay here, trapped and hidden, forever."

"Why?" The word is slow to come, quiet and meek.

He's taken the smile, and he hates himself for it. Necessity wins.

"Don't you want your life to mean more?"

She doesn't know.

Days pass, pondering. Her smile isn't gone forever, but he sees his question in the moments she isn't watching. A twist of hair, a simple frown, thoughtful eyes.

He knows how to save her. But is it worth the loss of her?

x0x0x0x0x0x

She is standing on her balcony, wind stirring her hair, moving her sighs. She's not sure where it comes from or why she hears it, but the low rumble of an engine scatters her thoughts, moving her lethargic brain into overdrive. She is inside of her walls in an instant, contemplating secrecy when the engine stalls, stops. It's a long drive and a small, empty beach house, and she's forgotten the sounds of humanity.

She slips inside, doors slip into locks behind her, and she is against the wall, beside the entry, her heart pounding into her throat.

Three knocks, repetitive, eating into her breath, and she hiccups in fear of the storm. Nothing ever stays the same.

"Miss?"

It's a man's voice, tenor low, pleasant and firm around her ears. Not like one of his lackeys, his _soldati_draped in a funeral dirge.

"Miss? We know you're there. Mr. Masen asked us to come by and have a chat with you."

Who asked what? She is confused, on the verge of believing but not sure where to guess or go. They knock again, this time with her name in their fists. They aren't going away. Three quiet strides take her to the knife, lying on the cold countertop. It is hard in her fist, sticky, swollen with sweat. The blade trembles, nervous anticipation.

The bolt twists. She tugs on the knob. The chain catches with a snap. Unfeeling metal, sharp through the open doorway, is barely hidden at her side.

"Yes?"

"Miss … Swan." Her name is nearly a curse on his lips. As if he knows. Eyes flicker, softly, up then down. Suits, firm pressed, bright and silk, hiding pleasant smiles and coercive looks. She does know. Not these, not the particulars, but the kind.

And the hurt begins, trickling from her brain, paralyzing her feet, her arms, the blade tucked neatly in her side. It's not a question, it's so many questions, all with no answers, not from the suits with polished buttons and horizontal stripes, bright, eye-consuming colors shooting from bleary black boxes.

They're all the same. And apparently, so is he.

x0x0x0x0x0x

He opens the door, longs for her scent, her presence, her joy. The leaping hugs, the swinging mass of shampoo-scented hair rolling across his face – it's why he presses through every day. Pretending.

There is no greeting for him today.

"Bella?" The locks snap shut, echoing behind him. Arms release, books, folders, papers slide to the floor, uncaring. He rounds the corner.

She is sitting, cold, fake plastic pressing into her thighs, pointed steel dangling, swinging from between her fingers, a pendulum to her calves. Her eyes are fixed on him.

_Oh. Shit._

"Who are you?"

"Bella …"

He isn't afraid for himself, only for her, for the choice she'll make, the things she knows. She slides from her place, feet smacking against linoleum. The knife hangs at her side.

"Should I put it down, Anthony?" The point is at her fingertip, twisting, wicked and deadly. "Give me a reason. Tell me who you're with, and I'll tell you your fate."

The truth is out, and it's over, this fairytale life.

"I'm not with him. I'm here … for your father."

She watches him hard, hand twitching. He doesn't move, no backing down. He's made his choice.

And he still loves her.

"Okay." And the weapon leaves her hand. Then she is beside him, brushing by him, pulling twenties and fifties from underneath the couch. He notices, for the first time, her clothing; black and grey, old and new, tight jeans and lace top, silk camisole. She's taking herself with her.

"Isabella, please, no. Don't –"

"Don't you _dare_ fucking tell me what to do." It's a hiss, her breath low.

"Just, please – just, let me explain. Please." He'll be on his hands and knees if she asks.

"Try." She's so still. He has a chance.

"Yes, I came here to find you for your father. He wanted you back. I wasn't told why; it wasn't my place to know, but the night I found you, they were trailing you, and I knew. They didn't have 'alive' in mind. So I brought you here. To wait, to find out what they wanted, where they went, till I could take you safely home. Then …" he pauses, swallows, unsure. She hasn't breathed. "… I found out why they wanted you. And I knew. I couldn't leave you. Isabella … you deserve more. I want out. With you. Please."

Stillness … so very still. Finally, she stirs, looking at him. Her eyes are broken, trails of tears iridescent in the fading sun.

"What's your name?"

He almost laughs. Three months. He wants to share so much with her.

"Edward." He pushes hair from his face, too long. "Edward Cullen, _soldati_."

She searches her feet, fingers the money in her palm.

"Edward." The name is foreign, fitting on her tongue. She plays with it, rolling it around a few times. She knows now what she's lost. "_Buona_ _fortuna_, Edward Cullen."

She's leaving. She's leaving, and he's losing.

"Isabella, wait, what – where are you going to go?"

"I don't know yet. It doesn't matter." He taught her freedom, strength. Now, he's broken her. He's made her invincible. "I can't sell out my family. I won't give up my father. I won't run that way."

"Isabella, he hurts people – he hurts you. You want to be free? If you don't confess, you'll _always _be under his fingertips, his marionette."

"What?" she smiles, sadly. "Like I would be yours?"

"No, I –" He looks at her, staggered, bewildered. "Isabella … I love you. It's not the same –"

"Are you saying my father doesn't love me?" Her hand around the knob, her heart tied in her throat. She wants to believe him, but everything he is lies. She loves Anthony. She doesn't know Edward. And he has no reply.

"You love me." It's reassurance, self-inflicted pain. A futile attempt.

"I might have." She looks down. The words shade her lips, forcing hope down his throat before dragging it out with rotten nails. "But I can't love lies."


	8. Chapter Eight: Never Turn Away

**Disclaimer**: I do not own any of the Twilight characters or the rights to "Apologize" as performed by Onerepublic, and I will not be earning income from using these materials. I do, however, own the storyline and any original characters. Thank you.

**

* * *

Chapter Eight:  
Never Turn Away**

_I loved you with a fire red, now it's turning blue, and you say "sorry" like the angel heaven let me think was you, but I'm afraid...  
It's too late to apologize_

"_Apologize" – Onerepublic_

x0x0x0x0x0x

_Now_

Moments, suspended in time, and he looks at her.

She is staring, tears dripping, at the man in the bed with sweat-matted brown hair, jagged stitches running up into his shoulder, pale cheeks, shut lids, shuddering breath.

"Miss Swan."

She is startled, pulled away for the first time since he entered the room.

"I'm sorry."

He nods, sketches a few more notes. Her hand is slick, wet, clenching his. She'll be done soon.

"Would you like to provide your testimony now, for the charge of murder in the trial of Mr. and Mrs. Denisea."

She acquiesces. She's run over these words, so many times, insomnia filtering in, and she knows she will go over more. They are practiced and right, the keys to everything. But her words now mean nothing. Her memory slips backwards, remembering …

The day she was so very wrong.

x0x0x0x0x0x

_Then_

The asphalt is hot and ancient, cracked beneath her feet, residual heat as the sun, barely boiling through her, is steadily slipping into the earth. She moves forward, has nothing, her hands and heart empty, tears dripping and salt swelling her pale, emaciated cheeks.

Imaginary, her believable world had been.

Splintered before her now, as numerous as the pebbles which press into her feet and bruise her soul.

She had loved. She still loves. The man she loves had no place in reality.

Now? He doesn't even have the decency to chase her.

The sun is gone, pale purples and shades of blue-gray streaked across the sky. The ocean crashes, its echo filling her ears, reminiscent of her sobs of heartbreak and pain. It's not the numbing sighs; it's a shattering of her existence she's never known before, the breaking of her being and the resultant crack and fade of breath.

But her imaginary life taught her to be strong. And she's tired of being afraid.

Walls rise, tall and daunting, yet familiar. Her home of a year, three months later. She is silent, stealthy, balls of her feet and whispers in the dark, but the still blackness of a life not lead greets her. It doesn't seem possible, but –

They are gone.

High tide, and the waves lap at the sand, the stilts of the structure, their steady _thwap_ a haunting comfort. It's locked, but her small hands are lithe and she learned much in Chicago. The heavy metal door creaks open before her.

Still empty.

It's nearly impossible, everything as it was. No new, no old, just her. Shear luxury, cold whites and heavy blacks framed against an open floor plan. A very small piece of her breaks apart, dies.

It's frozen and icy. It's not her home. It's not old, or worn, or ragged, or used.

She found home. And she let it go.

Pushing it aside, she sprints to her room, snatching a bag from her closet and gathering what she can. She has five minutes, no more. It's too risky.

Clothes, shoes, identification. Passport, cash, knife.

She reaches into the small safe. No knife. Where did she put –

"So nice of you to finally join me, Isabella. I was truly becoming impatient with your child's play. Hide and seek is not a game I'm interested in."

She halts, frozen, icy hands clenching around her stomach, her chest, her legs.

"Come now, you can't look at your future husband?"

She would run, but she cannot move, his voice shooting through her, pains in her heart.

"Isabella … surely it hasn't been so long that you don't remember." Low and menacing. "Isabella." Her name is a growl. "Look at me."

Her spine is taught, her fingers tense and numb. It's a fate she would never have imagined.

Strength boils up in her stomach. She will not forget what she has learned anymore than she will forget him.

She would rather die.

"No."

"Isabella!" The glass shudders, walls shake with his wrath. "Look at me now!"

It's then she sees them, the hidden shadows glinting around the border, fading from her view. She should have known better.

"Whore!" His hands are under her hair, grasping, pulling, choking. Pain ricochets through her skull, ripping at her from the base of her neck until she tenses, pulling back like a scared cat.

"Bitch!" There are stars across her eyes and sharpness in her cheek, pulling her to herself, and she drops her hands. Satin gathers in her mouth, his rough, hot fists digging into her side. "I've been watching for you, Isabella. Don't make me regret the time I spent waiting."

She can feel him, his nails on the back of her neck, and she knows this won't be easy. It never has. Blood on her tongue, metallic and burning. She won't lose her strength.

He lifts her, fabric splits, a sick ripping in her ears. The cool bed sheets burn into her flesh. His knees are on either side of her, pressing into her waist. His hand runs down her spine and down her backside, trying to reach the place of her final freedom. To break her entirely.

Her legs clench together in fear and courage; she won't allow him willing entrance. Not anymore. Then his face is against her neck, his breath, warm and vile, a stench in her nose, stomach rising in her throat.

"What? You think you're worth something?" Laughing, low and guttural, fingers working between her thighs, searching, itching past. "You're not worth anything to him anymore." Little by little, he's making headway, and she's sick, and bile fills her throat, rising to her mouth.

"You're lucky I don't kill you."

"Please." It's a whisper, slick, wet and hard. He stops, interested, fist against her neck. "Do. And when Charles finds out? Die."

He laughs.

"Your father knows better. Whore. You're not worth anything alive or dead. He told me so himself." He's next to her ear, full weight on top of her, and suddenly she's numb all over, crumbling. "You are mine, Isabella, to do with as I please."

She stills. He's broken her; hot tears, burning lines in her cheeks, and she vomits, coughing, choking, a blood-spattered mess.

He's against her, legs pressing her open, bent at the waist against the bed, arms caught in his hands, and she kicks at him, knowing she will pay for her lack of submission.

But it was her choice to leave.

And she will die fighting.


	9. Chapter Nine: Hold On Hope

**Disclaimer**: I do not own any of the Twilight characters or the rights to "Timshel" as performed by Mumford & Sons, and I will not be earning income from using these materials. I do, however, own the storyline and any original characters. Thank you.

**

* * *

Chapter Nine:  
Hold On Hope**

_Cold is the water, it freezes your already cold mind … death is at your doorstep, and it will steal your innocence, but it will not steal your substance._  
"_Timshel" – Mumford & Sons_

x0x0x0x0x0x

_Then_

Time ticks, infinite moments in a space of nothing. Her mind is clear, focused, thoughtful. His face, his eyes, his lips, his hands … he was right. She was wrong. And she has no way to go back and erase the words she spoke.

Shredding fills her ears, her mind slamming into the present with the force of his nails biting into her skin, piercing the smooth flesh underneath her arm, her shirt hanging, bits and pieces scattered about.

"You _will_ open yourself to me, you fucking cunt."

His knee finds her side, knocking the wind out with a grunt and a sob.

She can't fight anymore. It's almost over. She only wishes he were here … to say she was sorry. And goodbye. A hand wraps around the base of her neck.

"I'm going to kill you, you perfect little –"

"Get your fucking hands off of her, you rotting piece of shit, or I swear to whatever god exists, I will cut off each and every one of your limbs, piece by piece, starting with the fingers that are touching her skin."

Her heart is in her throat and she's reeling from his touch, pulling away and aside, but the man on top of her is heavy and thick, his waist pressing into her hips, motionless.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. I said get," he steps, "the fuck," again, "off."

The man over her straightens, tightening his grip, twisting the skin while she flounders, yanking, begging to get away. Her soul can't see her like this, in her failing. A quick crack is sharp in the silent standoff. Pain shoots through her temple. She thrashes harder.

He laughs. "Who the hell do you think you are?"

"Bella." It's quiet, her name, a whisper, barely slipping into her ear. "Bella, stop, please." She stills, presses her face away. It's the least she can do. "It's okay. I'm here."

"Jesus." She can hear the roll of his eyes, feels his grip loosen. He tosses her hands aside, pressing further into her hips, pinning her between his heft and the mattress. "I don't have time for this."

"Bella." His voice is frantic and urgent, pressing against her ears. She wants to see him, to love him, to know him. "Bella, it's okay. I forgive you." Sharp clicks of metal, cocking pistol. Her head snaps back.

His hands are up, defenseless, aimless. She can see the pistol near his hip, outline pressed against his jeans. It's useless, unaimed and uncocked, and she wonders until she realizes – she's the shield. And he won't hurt her. Disembodied flesh flies past her face, skimming her eyes, heavy weapon, burdened death.

"I love you."

She is strangled, choking, breathless to respond in kind, but time stops, slows, strives to move backwards and forwards, the bullet flying from cold steel, burying once in his thigh, then again in his heart. Red, thick trails weep, his eyes shut, expectant, calm, peace.

Hot, blind-red rage sparks in her chest, falling into her stomach and sparking in her hands.

He has taken _everything_. He will not go unscathed.

He presses her down, gunpowder and metal against her back, but her fists search for their own brand of pain. An open blade, lost memories found beneath the mattress, and it's gripped in her hand, lacing her palm, blood trickling onto her wrist.

She twists, all of her fight in the motion, and turns him, swinging.

Her hand is warm, wet and slick, and she stills, fingers twitching, lids clenched tight. Sick, bubbling streams gush across her skin, and she opens her eyes at the sound, heart alive at the sight of his blood, bathing her, mingling with her, drenching the hand that is stuck with the knife, shoved between shoulder blade and backbone. Shock, cold and deadly fear; he twitches, a guttural yelp, and sags, sliding forward, slicing though her slackened hand.

Silence, heavy and alive, electric. She is free.

A rough moan, panting breaths, behind her, is swelling in her ears, cutting through her shock.

Her mind is faster than her legs, but she's over him, on her knees, sliding sideways in the life pooling beneath his form, but his eyes flutter, short shallow puffs of air against her hand.

"Edward … oh God … oh God … oh shit … fuck."

He's alive.

One hand reaches, pulling sheets and shoving them into wounds, still dripping. She doesn't know what to do but stop the red from escaping, pouring onto her and out of him.

Then it's slowed, and she's running for the phone, blessing heaven for the dial tone, and dialing before her mind can mesh with fingers. She's begging, pleading, stuttering, crying, and they say they're on their way, but she doesn't know if it's soon enough. He remains, still and pale, and her heart clenches, stomach reels, and there's bile, in her throat, staining the roof of her mouth again, before she can contain it.

She lies next to him, permanently awake, hand clutched in hers, until they carry them both away.

x0x0x0x0x0x

_Now_

"Thank you, Miss Swan. One of our associates will assist you with your relocation at the appropriate time. Expect to hear from us soon."

He leaves, taking the noise and air with him. She sits, still, silent. He holds on.

"Edward?" She wavers, strength on the edge, grasps his hand. "Edward … I did it. I did it for me, and for you, and now everything will be okay, right?" They're wet and warm, but she doesn't feel them until they are trickling onto joined hands, between the grooves and sliding down skin, a shower of her tears. "I love you. I always have, even when I lied."

She's gripping at his hand, clenched in her fist when it moves, lightly squeezes, touches, acknowledges her presence, blesses her forgiveness. She pulls back a sob, glances up.

"Edward? Edward, I'm here … wake up, please."

She lifts her eyes to his, eyelids fluttering against pale white cheeks, when a flat sound squeals from the machinery, a hollow buzzing trickling into her ears. His body lifts, seizes.

Women surround her, pull her out, arms tight around the top of her, and she's numb, unfeeling, heart beating in her head, unsure. It's too loud and too bright and too frantic, not the same as the slow drag of her mind, drawing everything into a single moment, left fractured in spaces unreal.

He's slipping away.

She's left to fight for herself.

She has no fight left.


	10. Epilogue: Awake My Soul

**Disclaimer**: I do not own any of the Twilight characters or the rights to "Awake My Soul" as performed by Mumford & Sons, and I will not be earning income from using these materials. I do, however, own the storyline and any original characters. Thank you.

**

* * *

Epilogue:  
Free My Soul**

_Lend me your hand, and we'll conquer them all. Lend me your heart, and I'll just let you fall. Lend me your eyes; I can change what you see. But your soul you must keep totally free._

"_Awake My Soul" – Mumford & Sons_

x0x0x0x0x0x

_Three Years Later _

_Forever__  
_

The sun is brilliant and perfect, and she doesn't know how she would live without it. Its beams stretch through her hair, highlighting deep ebony strands with light chocolate, freckling her peach pale skin with bits of circular brown. The books in her arms are heavy, but the breeze flits across her face, bringing the sea with it, the salt scent of the shore and the whole of his touch, lighting on her with every step she takes.

Santa Monica is not Miami.

It is not her place of want, her self-discovery, but she is safe here. She is free here. And this is what matters most.

Rays of pale orange and yellow hang in the horizon, filtering through the windows as she slides the key home, steps inside. It's immediate, the sensation of his hands, falling over her face, weaving through her hair, and she longs for his touch, slipping through her, into her, tracing her every breath.

The fading sunset lights up the living room, the soft beiges and calm whites which take no color but have given all of their love to the accents in the room, to her calm demeanor and the touches of warm red.

Her books are stacked, four high on the countertop, lessons put aside for another hour. This hour, when the twilight comes and the clouds whisper on the wind, when the waves lap at the shore and pull at the pebbles, kissing the beach in a final goodnight before low tide … this is their hour.

The lock twists, the handle slips easily beneath her hand.

It's windy tonight, this ocean breeze, salted and pure, kind and alluring. It sweeps her hair across her face, as gentle as his fingers, and she misses him, the sharp pain in her chest a warm sliver in her heart. Her hands are cold on the wrought iron. She leans into the briny wind, the waves a calm peace.

"Be careful, love. Can't have you falling over board, can we?"

His voice is smooth and clear, his arms warm around her waist, pulling her from the brink, her harmonizing weight, her balancing point.

"You'd save me," she laughs, hiding her chilled limbs in his warmth. "You always have."

"No, Bella. You saved yourself. And me."

Her chin is in his hands, her hair fluttering against his cheek, winding around his neck, sleek strands aflame in sunlit beams. "I love you, Marie Dawn Masen." Red spills onto the high bones of her face, shy smiles mingling with the brushes of hope against her spine.

"I love you, Anthony David Masen."

Suddenly, she is twisted, pressed against him, aligned curve for curve, his arms catching her close, stealing her breath. Her hands stretch, flat against his chest, just left of his heart, scars of a life left behind. His lips brush against her nose, linger on the edge of her mouth.

"I will forever love you, Isabella Marie Cullen."

He is warm and fresh, mouth pressing, stealing away every hurt, erasing every scar, renewing her every thought, and she is learning.

There is freedom in love and in trust.

He is her hands, her eyes, her heart; they are fallen and tumbling over themselves like brilliant sun on warm summer grasses.

But her soul is her own.

She is free.


End file.
